


dear rabbit

by cherryvaleska



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Ambiguous Setting / Timeline, Canon-Typical Violence, Crying, Ficlet, Horror Elements, Jerome Being Jerome, M/M, Manipulation, Murder, in a way lol
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-18
Updated: 2020-10-18
Packaged: 2021-03-08 05:08:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,650
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26749984
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cherryvaleska/pseuds/cherryvaleska
Summary: "this blood on my teeth, it is far beyond dryand i've captured you once, but i wasn't quite right.so i'm telling you that you'll be safe with me.oh rabbit, my claws are dull now so don't be afraid.i could keep you warm as long as you can just try to be brave."
Relationships: Jerome Valeska/Bruce Wayne
Comments: 11
Kudos: 41





	dear rabbit

**Author's Note:**

> i'm not super satisfied with this, but this is one of two ficlets i wrote because i needed to get SOMETHING written to deal with this case of writer's block i've got. i think horror elements still fit into spooky month, no? 
> 
> fic itself and title inspired by the song i know i'm a wolf by young heretics, which REALLY feels like a valeyne song to me personally tbh

It had been easy, far too easy, to find someone for the job. 

Not that Jerome had expected any less, there were far too many people in Gotham ravaged by the jaws of poverty who were willing to do almost anything for easy money. Billionaires weren’t regarded well, especially not the top one percent of the one percent, so it hadn’t been hard to find a man who was willing to do what Jerome asked. 

Kill the billionaire prince of Gotham. Spill his blue blood. Lure him to the designated location and do the job.

Jerome had only just barely held himself back from killing the loser himself when he saw how his eyes lit up at the request, but he’d managed. This was necessary. He knew this pathetic excuse of a criminal would never be enough to kill someone like Bruce Wayne, and Jerome wouldn’t want him to be. He didn’t actually want Bruce to die, of course not, the very thought of killing Bruce now was almost enough to make him feel sick, but this was necessary.

Bruce would be pushed to the edge because he had to be and he would break his number one rule, and Jerome would be there to watch it happen. Just as it should be. 

Jerome had orchestrated this, had planned this, had known this was going to happen for weeks now, but no amount of scheming or planning could have ever prepared him for what it would feel like to watch Bruce commit his first murder, even if it was just in self defense. 

Bruce kills the man with the knife Jerome had planted. He drives it into the man’s throat, into his jugular, straight into his carotid, and when the knife comes free so does the man’s life blood. Blood paints the walls, the ceiling, and Bruce’s horrified, beautiful face as the worthless fuck sinks to his knees, hands coming to scrabble at the injury in vain. 

Bruce is, predictably, a mess when it’s over. He’s looking down at his bloodied hands, choking out hoarse, horrified cries, gasping for air like the world is closing in on him when he notices Jerome in the dark. He looks like he wants to run, more than likely ashamed and mortified that Jerome had seen him commit the unforgivable -- unforgivable in Bruce’s eyes, at least -- but Jerome doesn’t think he’s ever felt more in _love_ in his life. 

“Oh, Bruce’,” Jerome breathes and his voice is almost drowned out by Bruce’s distressed cries. 

Jerome spreads out his arms, twitches his fingers in a gesture for Bruce to come to him. “C’mere darlin’, lemme kiss it better.” He’s trying not to smile or grin, because as fucking proud and as besotted as he feels right now, he knows it wouldn’t help. It would only scare Bruce off or upset him more, and Jerome doesn’t need that. He needs Bruce to trust him, to fall into his arms, to seek comfort in Jerome until Jerome can break him down and build him back up. 

Bruce listens. 

“Jerome. I didn’t, I didn’t- he- he was going to-” He cuts off with a wrenching sob, gagging. “I didn’t want to kill him.” He blubbers, voice cracking. “ _Jerome_.”

The knife clatters to the floor and Bruce’s blood-soaked hands pull to his chest. He whimpers, trembling, before he takes an unsteady step towards Jerome. And then he’s pressing himself needily into Jerome’s chest, choking on the most broken sobs Jerome has ever heard. His hands fist into Jerome’s shirt, staining the fabric red.

Jerome wraps his arms around the delicate, perfect boy sobbing into his chest. He smoothes a hand through Bruce’s sweaty curls, down his back, presses kisses and hushes to the top of Bruce’s head. “I know you didn’t, darlin’. I know.” Jerome doesn’t want to be doing this, not really. He wants to be celebrating with Bruce, praising him on his first kill, loving him and fucking him in the gore because he’s proud, he’s so _proud,_ and his head is full of dreams and fantasies of he and Bruce slitting throats and setting off bombs together. 

But that’s not what Bruce needs right now. He’s not ready for that, not yet. 

He’s so soft and small in Jerome’s arms. Fragile. Blood-soaked. Quivering. He vaguely reminds Jerome of a rabbit caught in a hunter’s trap. Soft limbs bloodied and shaking as it sits still and awaits either death or freedom, whichever is more likely to come first. 

Jerome would be his freedom. He has no desire to be Bruce’s death, not anymore. Those days were long past.

Jerome pulls Bruce back to cup his face, shushing him and crooning to him as he thumbs away Bruce’s tears. Salt smears with iron across his soft cheeks. Bruce looks up at him, all watery doe eyes and quivering pink lips, despair on his face but trust in his eyes. 

He trusts Jerome, fully, entirely. Stupid boy. Foolish boy. _Perfect_ boy. Jerome loves him so fucking much.

“It’s okay, Bruce. You’re okay, darlin’, you’re okay.” And Bruce utters another sob as Jerome leans in and kisses him. He doesn’t pull away, he merely whimpers again and returns the kiss, needy, bloody little hands clutching at Jerome’s wrists. 

No, not a rabbit in a trap. 

A rabbit snared in the wolf’s teeth. Too sweet, too innocent, too good to leave the wolf alone once he’d been freed from those jaws.

But it’s okay now. Jerome’s claws are dulled, Bruce has nothing to be afraid of. He’ll be safe with Jerome and Jerome alone. Jerome will protect him and love him. He’ll kiss away his tears and lick the blood and guilt from Bruce’s soft fingers as many times as he needs to. 

“I killed him.” Bruce despairs when he can, looking down at his bloody hands once more. They shake and Jerome lifts his own, turning over Bruce’s hands so that he can slide his fingers through Bruce’s. Blood sticks their skin together. Bruce’s skin is cold and clammy beneath the blood, and Jerome squeezes. 

“You did.” Jerome tells him simply, softly, and Bruce makes a broken sound like he was hoping for another answer, like he’s hoping this is all just a bad dream that will be gone when he opens his eyes. 

Jerome doesn’t want that. He doesn’t want Bruce to shy away from what he’s done, to look away from the blood he’s spilled. He wants him to embrace it, because he knows that this is what Bruce has been capable of for years now. He’s capable of this, and so much more. Murder and cruelty so much more grand than just a grisly stabbing. Jerome had seen it that night, surrounded by mirrors, but it hadn’t been quite right back then. 

It is now.

There’s blood covering Bruce from head to toe and he has never looked more beautiful. 

“I’ll keep you safe, darlin’. I’ll make it better.” 

Bruce looks up at him again, his cheeks just as wet as his eyes despite Jerome’s efforts. He weakly squeezes Jerome’s fingers. He looks hopeful beneath his agonized gloom. 

“You will?

Too trusting, too innocent. A rabbit laying between the wolf’s bloody paws, trusting it won’t lose its head as the wolf laps at its cheeks. 

“Of course.” Jerome coos, slowly pulling one of his hands free, lifting it to cup Bruce’s cheek. Bruce’s freed hand clutches at Jerome’s other hand, bloody fingers slipping over the matrimony of their combined touch. “I just need you to be brave, Bruce. Can you do that for me, darlin’? Can you be brave for me?” 

Bruce swallows. He sniffles, blinking those big sweet doe eyes like he’s trying to fight back more tears. He doesn’t have to; Jerome will wipe away Bruce’s tears from now to the end of his days. Jerome will make sure of that. He has no intention of ever leaving Bruce alone, no matter what Bruce says or does.

Bruce nods, and Jerome rewards him with another kiss. 

Jerome loves him. Jerome is proud of him. Jerome is going to free the darkness inside of him. Jerome will turn him from prey to predator. This is just the beginning, the first domino, tipping and knocking over all the others until it paints the perfect picture of Bruce’s true becoming.

Bruce helps him wrap the body in a plastic tarp and he doesn’t question why Jerome has one at his disposal already. Bruce helps him load the body in a paid lackey’s truck and he doesn’t question why the truck was already there. Bruce helps him scrub up the blood and he doesn’t shy from Jerome’s bloody touches or kisses. He cries every now and then, but Jerome can see that he’s doing his best not to, trying his best to be brave, just like he promised Jerome he would. Either he doesn’t see Jerome pocket the knife or he’s too wrung out to care.

It’s the perfect memento, there’s no way Jerome would leave it behind. Maybe he’ll give it back to Bruce just in time for this one hundredth kill.

Jerome takes him home that night. He burns their clothes but keeps the knife, and he stows it away while Bruce isn’t looking, too busy pulling on one of Jerome’s t-shirts on autopilot to notice. 

Jerome holds him close that night, keeps him warm, keeps him safe. 

He soothes him when he cries and wipes away his tears when they aren’t wetting his chest.

He kisses him and praises him while he fucks him, filling his pretty little head with promises of eternal love that Jerome has every intention of fulfilling, and then some. 

Bruce’s nails sink into the flesh of his shoulders as Jerome sends him over the edge, and Jerome adores the dried blood stuck underneath them more than he could put into words. 

**Author's Note:**

> as always comments and kudos are appreciated 😌


End file.
